Author’s note : Hi folks ! this little thing popped into my head and refused to go away. No doubt the story line has been done before but I hope you’ll give it a go and as always I’d really love to know what you thought of it ! Pretty please ! Thanks !
Oh , it’ll be short, three chapters at the most, hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer; I own nothing execpt my little LOTR action figures and they will have to be pryed from my twisted dead hands !!
Everywhere could the mournful sound be heard.
Mud covered children with glassy eyes, wide with fear, wailed as they clung to the tattered remains of their mother’s clothes. Their playful innocence extingushed in the cruelest manner only to be replaced by the horrors of battle. It would be a long time before they would find solace and comfort in their sleeping hours, for their dreams would be plagued with nightmares of monsters and death in the many nights to come.
Women weeped fearfully as they searched frantically amongst the mangled corpses, praying silently that their search would be fruitless and that their loved ones would be elsewhere, alive and well. Others cried out in anguish, rocking back and forth over the bodies of their husbands, their sons, kissing their lifeless features one last time.
Cries from the wounded and dying filled the smoky air, they called for help, they called for loved ones, some cried for their mothers, long since passed.
Men, stoic in the aftermath of the horror, shed silent tears for fallen comrades as they thread carefully and respectfully amongst their fallen brethren, counting the cost of their freedom. Some searched for the wounded, for those who could still be saved, others assigned to salvaging weapons and armaments should they be needed again, while others claimed the solemn task of gathering the bodies.
And all the while, the sound of wailing echoed off battered stone walls.
It would be a long time before Legolas Thranduilion would ever be free of that haunting sound.
He stood atop the wall once more, alone. Helm’s Deep, this once mighty stronghold, it’s wall now breeched, like a gaping wound from which the very life blood of Rohan spilled. But it was not just the blood of men that had flown freely during the night. His kin had suffered too and now the horrors of the night were made all the more stark and gruesome in the waking morn. Huge scattered stones lay amongst the scattered limbs of men, elves and uruk-hai.
Amongst the sea of bodies, banners and arrows he could see the still forms of his kin, their bronze armour glinting in the rising sun. They appeared like the fallen, strewn leaves of their beloved mellryn, trees they would never see again, their unique song lost to them forever. That so many of the first born had died this night grieved him greatly. Elves were immortal, not destined to die, yet here so many of the Galadhrim had met this most cruelest fate. It was death on a scale he had not witnessed before and he found himself unprepared for it’s effects.
As he gazed about him, his eyes caught sight of something he had prayed to be spared. There on the battlements, fluttering gently in the morning breeze, the remains of a red cloak. He recognised it instantly, rushing to it’s owner, he carefully lept over the many fallen.
He caught the cloak in his grasp and pulled it back, to reveal a familiar face. Blue eyes gazed up at him, yet they did not see him, their light was gone and would never return. The young Prince could not help himself, his exhaustion and despair finally won out and he slumped to his knees beside Haldir’s body. The proud Marchwarden lay slain amongst the foul bodies of countless uruk-hai, many of them killed no doubt by the warrior himself. His body was stained with blood and grime and tainted with the black blood of the filth surrounding him. His once golden hair, hung limp and wet about him, coloured crimson now with his own life’s blood.
Legolas reached out, fingers trembling as he reverently closed the sightless eyes, forever wiping away the look of surprise and confusion that had frozen in their depths. And then something happened that he did not expect, silver tears began to silently flow down his own face, making tiny tracks in the grime until they too fell to their deaths and landed on the fallen elf’s body. He watched, stunned as the little tears were absorbed by the red cloak, forever mingled with the bloodied stains.
The grief overwhelmed him and his heart cried out in pain, he felt cursed that he should survive to witness this, this sacrifice. How could such a debt ever hope to be repaid. Without a care as to who would see him, he reached down and tenderly grasped the cold body of the elf he had recently come to call friend. He held on to it tightly for all his worth as if his very existance depended on it.
Soon the tortured cries of a Mirkwood elf joined the wailing chorus of the morn.